Chicot was not superstitious, but as he looked on, his imagination pictured a living man making his adieux to the dead.
“It is singular,” thought he. “I never felt so before—poor fellows.”
As soon as the king quitted the room, D’Epernon opened his eyes; and, jumping out of bed, began to efface, as well as he could, the spots of blood on his clothes. Then he went to bed again.
As for Henri, he conducted Chicot to his room, and opened a long ebony coffer lined with white satin.
“Look!” said he.
“Swords!”
“Yes! but blessed swords, my dear friend.”
“Blessed! by whom?”
“By our holy father the Pope, who granted me this favor. To send this box to Rome and back, cost me twenty horses and four men.”
“Are they sharp?”